While Captain Clifton was revolving in his mind the best way of introducing the object of his visit, which he had reason to believe would be distasteful to the energetic, independent lady—she quite unconsciously anticipated his intention, and relieved him from his embarrassment, by saying— “The heat is extremely oppressive, and I begin to find this business too much for me, Archer. This continuing out in the fields day after day, and all day long, throughout this burning weather, begins to tell, even upon my constitution.” Archer Clifton looked at his mother and noticed for the first time a slight but certain change in her countenance, invisible, perhaps, to an indifferent glance, but seeming to the eye of affection, fearfully like the very earliest premonitory symptoms of decay. That look pierced him to the heart. The fainter sound of her voice, too, had vaguely suggested failing strength—it fell upon his ear like a prophecy, a warning, a knell. He realized then, for the first time, that his mother was mortal—was growing old—that some day he should lose her. He felt then, for the first time, how much _he_—a man—had rested on this good mother—and his heart was troubled within him. And yet it was all caused only by a transient weariness in the look of her face, and a faintness in the tone of her voice. But more than all things else on earth—more _deeply_—though less ardently—than his own fair expectant bride—did Archer Clifton love his mother! It had even been said, some years before, by one who knew him best, that Clifton could never love any woman with the full force of his nature unless in qualities of mind and heart she resembled his mother. But of course, Captain Clifton had disproved that prophecy by adoring his cousin, the haughty and beautiful Miss Clifton. This is a digression—to return— As the new pang of fear for his mother’s health sped through his heart, Archer Clifton took her hand—he had a singularly sweet and persuasive voice and manner, when moved by his affections, and said— “There is no necessity for it, dear mother. Surely, the motive that prompted you when I was a lad, and when this farm was our only prospect, has long ceased to operate.” “I know it, Archer. For some years past this personal superintendence of the fields has been more a matter of habit, than a matter of necessity. If I could find a good manager I might try one.” “What do you think of Carl Kavanagh in that capacity, mother?” “Carl! I never thought of him at all. He has never managed a plantation.” “But yet he has been a farm laborer many years—has a practical knowledge of agriculture, and is, besides, a man of more intelligence than is usually to be found in his class.” “Yes—he is,” said the lady, thoughtfully. “He is also a man of excellent moral character, and faultless habits—qualities not too frequently met with among those of his grade.” “True—most true—but yet he is young, and has had no experience in overseeing.”